A Season for Shadows
by Elessie
Summary: NWN2 OC with tweaks - The return of the King of Shadows is a trial for every person who takes up the fight. It's perhaps most challenging of all for the druid Summer, a natural loner who finds herself in the unlucky position of being the thread that ties this disparate group together.
1. The Mere

_Disclaimer: Neverwinter Nights 2 and its characters and storyline do not belong to me._

A wading heron startles into flight as Daeghun picks his way through the Mere of Dead Men, winding back and forth to keep to solid ground. His ward hangs back, checking under the infrequent and stubby brush that struggles to grow in this harsh environment. While Daeghun prefers to be practical and rely on pelts to keep them supplied, Summer spends their hunting trips searching for useful plants in general, and rare, local fungi in particular.

She moves through the swampy wilderness with a calm and confidence that almost rivals his own, as if the Mere runs in her blood. Like it did her mother's. She is silent enough that every so often he pauses to look back, to make sure she's still there. Daeghun doesn't need to do this; the Mere is like her own backyard and she spends most of her free time roaming it alone. But he cannot forget what happened, eighteen years ago, when he didn't look back.

He spots Summer just a few paces behind, cropping dark purple grasses with a small silver sickle. He moves on quickly, but even a brief glimpse underlines the way she grows more like Esmerelle each day.

Not that Summer looks much like her mother physically. Her brown hair and olive skin come courtesy of an unknown father. As do her golden eyes: a startling shade at odds with the rest of her coloring. But the angle of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the way she moves through the Mere, almost becoming a part of it… All echoes of Esmerelle. And, as always, it strikes him as horribly wrong that Esmerelle has left this living memory of herself behind, while of Shayla he has nothing.

Some day, like Shayla and Esmerelle, Summer too will be gone. And Daeghun will still roam these paths and hunt for furs, watching the village change around him while he himself remains unchanged, untouched. Because to contemplate anything else would mean stopping. And now, today, he has need to keep moving.

A muffled whine cuts through the air and he spins, drawing his bow with practiced grace as he seeks his ward's position. He finds her crouching next to one of the swamps squat, twisted trees, reaching towards something huddled between the exposed, branching roots. The object of her attention turns out to be a rusty-furred wolf pup. Daeghun dismisses it, instead searching for signs of any angry parents lurking nearby. Only when he fails to find any recent trace of adults does he return to Summer and the pup.

Summer is mumbling soothing nonsense to the young wolf, and eventually it consents to take a piece of jerky from her outstretched hand. When she offers another piece and starts to rummage around in her pack for something else, Daeghun interrupts, "It's not wise to interfere with young ones; the parents usually aren't far."

"She's been starving for days," Summer argues, as if he should be aware of this. "And her leg is injured. She can't walk. They… Her pack had to leave her. There were… strange creatures moving in on their territory."

Daeghun isn't surprised at this, for it seems she takes after her mother in yet another way. "And you know this how?"

"I…" Summer fumbles the roll of bandages. "I just do…" Her brow furrows, but she resumes splinting and bandaging the young wolf's leg. The pup fusses at first, biting at the bandage, though not at Summer herself. Then the girl pauses, distracted. Her eyes cloud over with something as - staring at nothing in particular - she runs a hand over the injured paw, muttering unintelligible words under her breath. After a moment she shudders and sits back on her heels, looking stunned. "The bone is whole again. How…?"

Suspicions confirmed, Daeghun nods. "After the Harvest Festival, I will seek out the Circle of the Mere, to see if they will take you in for training."

"Training? As a druid?" Summer asks unsteadily. But she isn't idle. As she analyzes this, she continues to work on the wolf's paw, unwrapping it, removing the splint, and rewrapping it again with just the bandage. And he'd expect no less. "The bone is healed but the muscles around it are still weak. It will take time to strengthen them again," she explains unnecessarily.

"If that is what you want to do," Daeghun says, in answer to her earlier question. "You have some affinity for it. Now, finish up here. I've asked Galen to bring me bow, and if he's managed to find one of the quality I requested, he'll expect a fine pelt in trade for it."

Summer ties off the bandage, tucking the knot underneath it so the pup won't be tempted to chew it. She picks up not just her bag, but the little wolf as well, awkwardly settling the pup in her arms. "She doesn't mind if I'd like to call her Sorrel," she begins.

Daeghun doesn't move. "What are you planning to do with her?"

She holds the pup close, facing her foster father with that calm but stubborn look - the one he's been unfortunate enough to become closely acquainted with over the years. "Her pack has moved on. She's scrawny and undersized, considering the season. I didn't patch her up just to leave her to die."

Daeghun frowns. Words are on his lips, ready to protest how impractical this suggestion is. But then he remembers…

There was a hawk once. Light as the air. Swift as the breeze. She hunted with him and watched from above, guarding over him and keeping him company. Until she, too, was gone.

His sigh signals resignation. "If you truly understand what you are getting into… if you _accept responsibility _for her, then you may rehabilitate her. As long as you don't neglect other responsibilities."

Summer's satisfied grin makes it clear that she _doesn't_ understand the burden of being responsible for another living being - not at all - but Daeghun says nothing as he stiffly helps her rearrange her travel pack so she can still reach for the sling tied to her belt.


	2. West Harbor

"Tighten up that line! I've seen boulder piles make a better formation"

Bevil tries to lose himself in the militia drills as Georg runs through his usual list of inspirational taunts, but he just can't slip into the right mind set. Down the line, the Mossfelds are merely going through the motions. They like brawling well enough, but lack the discipline to improve their sword work.

"Keep your weight off your heels! Don't grip so tightly! West Harbor would be safer with a pack of grannies wielding knitting needles!" Georg finishes his rant and sighs theatrically. "Enough! Take a break and when you get back out here, I want to see some actual effort!"

The lines break apart; nobody pays much heed to Georg's ribbing as they stretch their arms and legs and retrieve water bottles. Bevil carefully inspects his bottle before drinking from it, as the Mossfelds seem to be looking for trouble.

The three brothers are in a close huddle, speaking in angry tones that carry farther than they realize. Bevil tries to ignore it, but when Amie's name comes up, his feet shuffle over of their own accord. Everyone in the militia knows about Webb's plan to ask Amie to walk out with him, and all have heard him explain how a 'timid bookworm' is a 'sure bet.' Bevil, however, is fairly confident Amie will turn him down. At least he hopes she will.

"She said she had to _study_?" Wyl asks his brother in a disgusted tone, and Bevil grins because it seems Amie already has turned him down. But his mouth tightens as Wyl continues, "Why that Luskan-bred-"

"Hey!" Bevil finds himself interrupting. "Don't talk about Amie like that."

The Mossfeld brothers predictably turn their growing outrage on Bevil. "That's funny," Wyl drawls in phony confusion. "I thought we already taught you a lesson about butting in on other people's conversations."

"Guess we'll have to teach him again," Ward replies.

"Yeah, sometime when Georg isn't around." Webb adds. "Maybe over by the well." The three brothers snigger and Bevil shifts uncomfortably. He hasn't forgotten the way Ward dangled him over that well years ago, and obviously neither have they. "You can even bring your little Luskan friend to watch."

"_Wherever_ her parents might have been from, Amie's a harborman like the rest of us," Bevil argues. He's heard the rumors that her parents were Luskans - you'd have to hide out in the Mere like Summer not to. And he's pretty sure that before hostilities between Neverwinter and Luskan erupted into open war, nobody out here would have cared enough to comment.

"What kind of harborman stares at musty books all day long? We're gonna destroy you two and the swamp monster in the Brawl this year..."

Bevil grinds his teeth, but he doesn't tell them not to call Summer that. Because it's his fault. As a child, he came up with the genius plan of bragging to the other children about how his friend was a powerful swamp monster. Summer, with her strange yellow eyes, looked different enough that they actually believed him and were impressed... At least for a short time. After that, the nickname stuck. And though time has erased its potency as an insult, Bevil still feels a bit ashamed of his part in it.

Wyl smirks at his reaction. "It's no wonder you're so uptight, Bevil. Spending all your time with a girl who wouldn't know what to do with a man without reading about it first... and another, who more than likely has moss growing down there. It's no surprise you haven't gotten anywhere with either of them!"

Bevil launches himself at the trio. By the time Georg intervenes he can't open his left eye, the fingers of his right hand feel broken, and his breakfast is trying to make a reappearance, courtesy of some prodding by Ward's boot. But Wyl's nose is starting to swell in a satisfying way. There's no trace of Georg's normal good humor as he dismisses them, watching to make sure Bevil and the Mossfelds leave in different directions.

Bevil finds Amie by the stream, her practice spot of choice since the small incident with the burning hands spell. Her brow furrows in concentration as she slowly, carefully pronounces each word of the spell, index finger pointing at the stream. As she finishes, the air between her finger and the stream crystallizes, ice forming in place for a moment before it falls to the ground and melts. A small circle of ice in the stream lingers longer, slowly drifting as it dwindles.

"Almost ready for the Tourney of Talent?" Bevil asks when it seems safe.

"Bevil, I didn't hear you," Amie turns to face him, but since she's still pointing her finger, Bevil steps aside. Amie chuckles at his reaction and flashes her palms at him. "It's alright." Bevil relaxes as she continues, "I've been casting this one pretty consistently, so it should work great for the festival as long as they don't mind me freezing something... Oh! What happened?"

His mind conjures up various magical disasters before he realizes she's just noticed his swollen face. If only she found him half as interesting as her spells... "Oh, nothing. Just militia training."

"Again?" Amie protests. "You should speak to Georg about easing up. And maybe see Brother Merring?"

Bevil has no intention of discovering what kind of choice words Brother Merring would have about starting fights when you're outnumbered three to one. "Maybe later."

"Alright. Well, since you're here... Mind if I cast a spell on you?"

"Sure," Bevil's mouth proclaims before his brain can catch up. Hells, not again... "Er, you don't mean that one, do you?" He glances downstream, where the chunk of ice has melted away.

"No, of course not! Just move over a little, away from the tree... Perfect. Ready?"

Bevil squeezes his eyes shut. Does he have a choice? "Ready."

Amie begins to speak, words that have no meaning to him but are suddenly of great interest all the same. When she stops speaking the world seems to spin, but he doesn't dare open his eyes to check.

"It's alright," Amie says, and he can tell by the tone of her voice that the spell was successful. He opens one eye, then the other, and checks himself over, finding everything still in place. He looks at Amie.

"You... shrunk yourself?" Bevil asks, confused.

Amie laughs. "I haven't shrunk; you've grown. Look around!"

Bevil does so and is surprised to find that she's right. He's almost half again his regular height, and he takes a moment to thank Chauntea that his clothes have grown along with him. The branches of a nearby tree, previously out of reach, are now nearly at eye level. And... is that his old toy soldier? Wyl tossed it up here years ago, and no amount of rocks could knock it loose again. He could probably grab it if he...

The world spins again, just a brief twist that doesn't last long enough for him to lose his balance. He's back to his normal height. "That was impressive, Amie."

"I'm hoping to do that one for the Tourney of Talent as well. If you don't mind, that is."

"I heard Summer wishing she was as tall as a tree just the other day..." Bevil protests out of principle, though they both know he'll do it.

"Have you seen her today?"

"Saw her heading out into the Mere again, with that crossbow. Seems to think if she can shoot a perfect score at the archery competition, Daeghun will be proud of her." Bevil rolls his eyes at the notion of Daeghun showing any sort of feeling.

"Really, Bevil... Daeghun can't be all bad. Tarmas seems to respect him."

Bevil sighs. It's a familiar point of contention between them - one he is happy to steer the conversation away from. "So what do you think of our chances for the Cup this year? Maybe we'll break the Starling Curse at last."

"It sounds like Summer will take the Archery Competition for us. We might be out of luck for the Knave's Challenge, though. You've been training for the Brawl, but... we have to beat the Mossfelds. They won't be pleasant to face." An understatement, but - being Amie - she doesn't bring up her own recent problems with them. "Hopefully I'll get all my spells right during the Tourney of Talent."

"As if that's not a certainty," Bevil teases, and grins at the blush that blooms across her cheeks.

"Well it won't be, if I don't practice. Let's try that transmutation spell one more time?"

Bevil bites back a groan, wondering how he didn't see that coming. "Alright, but please... can you call it something else?"

"Of course. Now... prepare to be enlarged!"


	3. Growing Shadows

Summer has been to the ruins before, but never at night. Darkness changes the familiar path, playing tricks that make things seem out of shape and place. The torch Bevil carries at her back only causes further distortion, stirring the shadows into living things.

Scuffling and curses rise again from behind. Summer sighs and waits for Bevil to draw even, squinting past the torch's light. "Can't you move more quietly? All this noise is bound to attract something."

Bevil glances around uneasily. "Believe me, I'm trying."

"You might do better without the torch. The way it's flickering like that, it's no wonder you keep tripping."

"Don't remind me. But I'd stumble even more without it. We don't all have yellow eyes that can see in the dark."

"Golden," Summer corrects him automatically. "Amie says they're-" Her throat tightens suddenly. Amie won't be around to correct him anymore.

Bevil stops as if struck. "This is all too much, Summer. The village is in flames, we're trudging through the swamp in the middle of the night, and Amie..."

"I know." Most times it felt like Amie was the only person in the village who understood. Whether it was because they'd both lost parents, or just a general sense of being considered outsiders, they had something in common. Unlike most of the village, Amie never felt the need to drop little comments about Daeghun to her. She was Summer's closest friend.

But Bevil... Bevil's been in love with Amie since he was five years old. Something readily apparent to everyone, except perhaps Amie herself.

"That's all you can say?" he demands, suddenly angry at Summer for some reason she can't fathom.

No words can make this better, so Summer merely echoes Daeghun's earlier advice to her. "Dwelling on our losses serves no purpose. We have to focus on the task at hand."

It's hard to tell if Bevil looks more shocked or angry. The way he gestures with his torch-bearing hand makes the surrounding shadows appear to close ranks. "How can you say that? Don't you even care that Amie's gone? Or has Daeghun finally turned you into some kind of unfeeling monster?"

Summer holds her breath, reigning in an instinctive urge to snap back at him. "Of course I care. But we can't do anything about it right now."

"I thought she was your friend," Bevil continues bitterly, each word hammering at her tenuous control. "I suppose it'd be different if it was that stupid wolf of yours."

"I- What?"

"At my house. You didn't even check to see if the children were alright. Just ran to the dogs..."

"What does that-?" Summer's lips tighten; it gets harder by the moment to remember that Bevil is grieving too. "Muttonchop almost died saving the children. Locke and Nasher didn't escape injury either. You're saying I should've ignored their wounds? Wounds received protecting your family..."

"Well, at least the dogs were concerned for my family..." The torch makes an angry slash of light. "Do you even know their names? The children, I mean. You obviously know the _dogs_' names."

Summer knows their names - of course she does, he mentions them all the time - but her mind goes stubbornly blank. Flustered, she grasps at them until Bevil grunts in disgust.

"Wait, Bevil. Of course I know their names." They finally relent and come to mind, but he's already moving forward. "Danan-"

"Forget it! Let's just get this lousy shard for your rotten father."

Nails digging trenches into her palms, Summer struggles for a tone Daeghun would approve of. "He's trying to protect the village... something I thought was important to you as well."

Shadows stutter and spin as Bevil turns again. "Little late now, isn't it? If he'd cared for any of us, he'd have taken this thing they're after far away and _none of this would have happened_!"

"That's enough!" Perhaps there were times when she questioned Daeghun's affection, but he's never given _anyone_ cause to doubt his sense of responsibility. Bevil can find someone else to blame. "Enough, Bevil."

"Run out of superior remarks? I'm sure your father could give you some."

"One more word about him and I'll leave you here for the beetles to gnaw on."

"How can you defend him?" Bevil demands anyway, either not believing her threat or too frustrated to care.

"Have it your way." Summer picks out a path with ease and tries to tune out the less graceful movements of Bevil following behind her. The torchlight recedes as she quickly widens the gap.

"Go ahead," Bevil shouts after her. "Run off into the dangerous swamp!"

"Dangerous for you perhaps," Summer calls over her shoulder without missing a step

"You're acting like a-" Bevil's reply is cut short by a scuffling noise that transitions into a soggy splash. Summer turns back to find he's tripped and stumbled into a stretch where the water is significantly deeper than it looks. The torch hisses, flame fluttering wildly as the water soaks in, only to dwindle to smoke. Up to his chest in murky water, Bevil tosses it aside to better fight a losing battle with the muddy ground. "Um... I may be a little stuck."

"I told you that heavy armor was a bad idea out here," Summer complains, backtracking to help fish him out of the hole.

He's halfway out when the beetles find them.

As Summer walks away from West Harbor the sun slowly creeps above the horizon, like its as reluctant to start its journey as the girl whose path it lights.

She wants to retrace her steps, return to West Harbor and beg someone, anyone, to tell her what she did wrong and why she has to be sent away. And what she can do to fix it, so she doesn't have to leave. She wants to talk to Bevil, to smooth things over between them. Not just leave with their argument unresolved.

But she can't. And though there's been tragedy in her past, she was too young to feel its impact. This time, she feels it. Both the loss and the unwelcome discovery that _stuff just happens_.

The hair on the back of her neck rises and Summer stops to check her surroundings, trying to shake the nagging sensation of being watched. It's become a familiar feeling, intermittently over the years, though she's yet to find a source for it. She brushes it off as imagination, like the way shadows seem to be growing longer and thicker in the Mere of late.

A strand of grasses on the other side of the path rustles and a reddish brown wolf with a slight limp bursts out. "Sorrel, what are you doing here?" Before she left West Harbor, Daeghun warned that it would be impractical to bring a young wolf on this journey. Ship captains don't usually appreciate wild animals onboard - Flinn being no exception to this rule. But as Sorrel falls in beside her, Summer finds herself unable to bear the thought of sending the wolf away.

"We'll worry about it when we get there."


	4. Caught

Bevil kicks at a scorched plank, then wrenches it away from the rest of the charred barn wall. The world ended two nights ago, or at least it feels that way. But all around him, people are picking themselves up and carrying on, in true West Harbor form. Except, of course, for the ones that _didn't_ get back up.

It just won't stick in his mind. Over and over, he finds himself planning to take a break from working on the barn, to go down by the stream and catch her practicing spells there. That's when he remembers. The strange mage. Magic flicking back and forth, quick as thought. Amie falling. All of it over and done with, before he even moves to stop it.

He moves now, away from the burnt wreckage of the barn, away from the burnt wreckage of the _village_. His mother watches him go, face creased with worry. But she can't leave the other children alone right now to follow him. He escapes.

He follows the main path out of the village - the one that Summer took, though he doesn't plan to go as far. Simply _away_ is enough for him. Once - what feels like a hundred years ago - he, Amie and Summer planned to travel this path and have adventures. But Bevil doesn't want to see the world anymore. He simply doesn't want to see what's left of his home now either.

He continues down the path, but not with the long, ground-eating strides of someone going somewhere. He moves like a sleepwalker, no struggle left for things beyond his control. It's not long - though it might as well be forever - before he runs into the militia patrol. Despite every hand being needed in the village now, they are taking shifts, watching for any sign of the attackers returning.

Ward and Wyl block the path ahead of him, alive only because of some kind of druid magic Summer called up during the attack. Bevil isn't sure he would have spared the time, had it been up to him. The brothers still aren't in top shape, but well enough to keep an eye out.

"Move," Bevil warns them, not slowing down.

Wyl puts a hand up, as if that will stop him. "Nobody is supposed to be out here alone-"

Bevil pushes through, clipping them both when they don't move out of his way. He turns to meet their retaliation head-on, but apparently even the Mossfelds aren't looking for a fight today; they frown and shake it off.

"Well, don't say we didn't warn you," Ward grumbles, but there's no heat it in. "You'd better be back in time for your patrol."

Bevil shrugs and walks on hurriedly, agitation with no outlet innervating each step. If the previous stretch passed too slowly, this one passes too quickly, and he finds himself farther afield than planned.

He shouldn't be out here alone, he realizes, as the first tendril of panic begins to hit. Isn't this exactly the type of thing he always tried to warn Summer against? Blundering heedlessly into the Mere, running into who knows what? He is not even armed, having left his sword where he set it aside to work on the barn. Evening shadows already subdue the day; he doesn't want to be here when night falls.

As Bevil turns towards home, anger and loss momentarily fade before an urgent desire to get back to safety. But he's no longer alone out here. Creatures from that night of fire and death block his route to safety and slowly spread out to surround him. A cloaked figure raises its hands and as it speaks, darkness falls.


	5. The Weeping Willow

Summer squints and struggles to focus on the strange dwarf seated across from her at the Weeping Willow Inn. The heavy mixture of wine and ale in the air makes her stomach churn. With the hand not holding a bandage to the back of her head, she clutches at the table for support. If the room would just stop teetering, she's sure she could heal herself.

Her table companion raps the mug in front of her with his own. "Drink this. Will make ya feel good as new!" He's quick to follow his own advice.

The smell wafting up from it causes Summer's stomach to flip-flop. "I don't think-"

The dwarf slams his own recently emptied mug on the table with a thunk that crashes into her skull like a hammer. "Drink up, lass!"

She pushes the mug away and leans heavily on her elbows, trying to focus on the way it felt to heal the wounded during the attack on West Harbor. But thinking of her home and the condition she left it in makes it even harder to concentrate. Being outside the inn would be better, but the door seems an impossible distance away. It's a long time before she finally manages to tune out the activity around her - the boisterous dwarf across from her being particularly hard to ignore - and heal herself.

Head still sore but finally clear, Summer studies her new acquaintance. Her mug now sits empty next to his own.

The dwarf shrugs at her look. "Thought you were out there, before you'd even started on the drinking part!"

"I hit my head on something..." Summer begins, rubbing at the improved but still tender spot on the back of her head. It feels like there's something she's forgetting. "Where's Sorrel?"

"If you mean that wolf pup of yours, the innkeeper wouldn't let it in. Guess you got a bit fuzzy, after you hit your head on that rock."

"That's right," Summer recalls. "There were three of them. I hit one with my sling and he went down, but another got to me before I could line up another shot. Knocked me over..."

"Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. You taking one down with that little sling, I mean. People hitting their heads on things just tends to happen."

The last comment earns him a blank look from Summer. She clears her throat awkwardly, "Why did they attack you?"

"Musta thought if they just waved their weapons about, I'd drop my coin and run. Too bad, I'm always up for a friendly fight."

Summer spends a moment to trying to reconcile the apparent contradiction in 'friendly fight.' "You mean you actually enjoy fighting?"

"There's nothing like a good brawl. Fighting - not just for its own sake, but to get better at it too - is something you can take pride in." The dwarf frowns at the two mugs in front of him, as if puzzled by their emptiness. "What, don't tell me you're one of them... sissy pacifist types?"

Thinking of the attack on West Harbor, Summer shudders. "I think I'd prefer to avoid fights."

"Oh? And yap all day, 'stead of sorting things out well and good? Roads here aren't exactly safe you know. And getting worse all the time. You might think about heading back to wherever it is you came from."

Fingers worrying at her pack, where the offensive shard hides, Summer shakes her head. "I'd like to, but I'm afraid it's not an option."

"Where are ya headed, lass?"

"Neverwinter. I need to get-" The inn's front door swings open violently, and the hissing voice of bladeling grabs her attention. "Not again," she protests, fumbling in her attempt to both stand and line up a shot with her sling at once.

"Again, is it?" The dwarf grins like a maniac as he comes around the table. "Lass, this may be your lucky day."

* * *

While the dwarf - named Khelgar, she's learned - cleans off his waraxe, Summer tends to the injured bystanders. It's her fault they were attacked - or as good as, since she brought the accursed shard - and her responsibility to heal them. Her first aid training is nothing recent, coming from old lessons with Brother Merring - he used to stop by their house quite frequently, as if checking up on Daeghun's care of her - but the healing magic is new.

She moves from group to group, inspecting their wounds, while Sorrel pads along after her like a household pet. Their part in defending the inn earns them some leeway with the innkeeper, but the juvenile wolf is on her best behavior, attempting to look harmless.

Summer cleans out cuts and carefully wraps them to prevent infection. Broken bones she whispers a healing spell over to speed their mending. Most here were quick enough to stay clear of the creatures, but a few of the more inebriated patrons weren't so lucky. At Gera's request, she makes a cursory inspection of Zachan's bruises - received not in a fight, but from tripping over the rug in his haste to escape the bladelings. Khelgar and Summer reached his room just as two of the creatures dragged him out from under the bed. That he made no attempt at all to resist them puzzled her then. Though she never drilled with the militia like Bevil, Summer knows the basics of how to defend herself - Daeghun made sure of that before he let her wander the Mere. Starting off on her journey, she expected the same from any travelers she might meet: that they could take care of themselves, if they couldn't afford to hire guards like Galen.

One of those guards responds with a derisive snort when she asks them if they need any aid. Galen gives a brief wave indicate the group is fine. Summer nods and returns to her original table, content to sit and rest a moment.

Khelgar - who apparently let the innkeeper show his gratitude in the form of free drinks - waves a mug at her kit. "Patched them all up?"

"For the most part." Summer sorts the remaining supplies and begins to pack them away, her mind preoccupied with bladelings and gray dwarves. "I don't understand how they got here so quickly, unless they're already searching the roads. Do you know what a Kalach-Cha is?"

"It's no proper dwarf curse, that's for sure," Khelgar replies, taking her abrupt subject change in good stride. "Sounds like something they want pretty badly, though. We'd best be moving on, lass. I don't mind a fight, but I don't like bringing others into our battles."

Summer pauses, hands hovering over her pack. "We?"

"Aye, lass. Heading to Neverwinter myself, so I figure I can get ya there in one piece, more or less." Before she can voice a protest, he continues, "You're handy with that sling of yours, I'll give ya that. But you won't get there throwing pebbles."

"They're not pebbles. They're little balls formed out of leftover bits of metal and they-"

Khelgar waves off the rest of the explanation. "Even so."

"Well, I think..." The journey would be safer if not made alone; recollections of her earlier vulnerability make that quite clear. "I think that might be a good idea," she admits.

"And if we happen across some more of those friends of yours," Khelgar adds, starting to grin, "All the better!"


	6. The Hills

Neeshka stops abruptly as the guard post comes into view. Tucked between two short hills on the side of the road, the camp is just out of shouting distance from Fort Locke and just out of sight from the road - until you're too close to get away.

She's just starting to backpedal when she realizes that - despite the brightness of the day and the lack of cover on the road - there's no challenge from the camp. The invisibility potion must be working! She'll kiss that merchant, next time she sees him.

Taking care not to give away her position by sound, Neeshka creeps by the camp, keeping an eye on its occupants. They seem to have quite a haul in there... Too much, really - more than they could possibly get from catching wayward bandits. They must be taking a cut from every passing traveller. Lucky for her they can't spot her. All she has to do is stroll by…

Her footsteps slow, and her eyes are drawn again to the goods waiting in the guarded camp. They wouldn't miss a few coins, surely. Her pockets are feeling far too light lately. The pay from that last job with Leldon should have lasted for a time, but somehow it's nearly all gone. But the mystery of the disappearing coins is a familiar one and - no matter how many times she checks her pockets for holes - apparently unsolvable.

Her feet shuffle into the camp, and she ducks behind a crate of confiscated merchant goods to scrounge through a promising bag. Carefully, quietly, her dagger cuts the knotted cord, exposing the bag's contents. Hells... what is she supposed to do with spools of fine thread? Not worth the trouble of unloading it - not when there's gold and gems around for the taking. If she can just find them…

Despite the invisibility potion, she holds her breath as she creeps around the stack of crates, looking for smaller, sturdier containers. They have to keep the coin around here somewhere, and since she's already in here, she might as well look. It has to be somewhere. Unless, of course, they already divvied it up…

Now that she's up close, the soldier's do seem to be carrying unusually heavy coin purses, especially the one who looks to be in command. A full, enticing coin purse dangles from his belt, right there outside the armor.

Keeping the coin on his belt makes it a little more difficult for her, but it's not as if he'll see her coming. If he really didn't want want to lose it, he'd keep it under his clothing, not just hanging there like that. Neeshka edges closer, by habit waiting for a moment when the soldier's back is turned before reaching for the pouch.

"Hey, what's that there!"

Experience alone saves Neeshka from pulling on the man's belt as the voice calls out behind her. She twists in an incredibly awkward manner to avoid contact as the leader suddenly turns towards her. She knows she didn't make a sound and it's not as though they can see her. How could they, with this strange glimmering all around her. Oh, hells, the potion! She'll kill that merchant, next time she sees him!

"What's this?" asks the man she's pegged as the leader of this group. By the time she's fully visible again, the three other soldiers have her surrounded. One of them trains a crossbow on her while the other two pull swords and cut off her path to cove. The leader wields only a smug grin. "Usually we have to go out looking for the bandits. Nice of you to come to us for a change."

"Oh, give me a break," Neeshka's mouth runs off reflexively while she frantically takes stock of her predicament. "You're obviously set up to shake down travellers on the road. I'm just wondering how you're getting away with it. And I'm not a bandit."

"Some kind of demon, she is," one of the soldiers interjects, pointing with his weapon at her tail. "Wonder how much that will be worth."

The must not have noticed the horns yet, half hidden among her unruly curls. As their eyes travel to her tail, she gives it an extra twitch. The soldier behind her follows the movement with the sword, and Neeshka uses the opportunity to spring past him, trying to make it to the pile crates and take cover from that crossbow.

The soldier with the crossbow is faster than she counted on. The bolt thunks into the crate just in front of her face, freezing her for a moment as she takes in the narrow miss. Don't stop, gotta move! She pushes herself back into motion, intending to be behind something before he can finish reloading, but suddenly the leader has a grip on her shoulder and a knife at her throat.

Neeshka's voice is faint and distorted as she struggles to speak without breath, without moving her throat that little bit towards the blade's edge. "Look, just let me go. I don't have any money. I haven't taken anything. I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"Just one problem." The knife doesn't waver as another soldier disarms her. "If I did that, how would we collect the bounties on you and your friends?" The knife swings away and he shoves her at a more alert looking swordsman.

"What?" Neeshka protests as she's pushed yet again. A sword point presses into her leather armor. "I'm not a bandit! Just let me go."

"Move her away from here," the leader gestures at their collected goods with his knife, then flips the weapon up in the air - like some kind of reckless entertainer - before resheathing it. "And find out where they're holed up at. Those bandits hit that group of refugees before they got to us; they can't be too far."

They coerce her over the smaller hill, leading away from Fort Locke. At the bottom, the ground is disturbed: trampled, perhaps even dug up. She tries to fake a stumble, to put some distance between herself and the swordsman at her back.

"Stop right there, bandit!" It's the man the with crossbow trained on her. "Or we'll skip the questioning and get right to the killing."

Like _that's_ gonna make her cooperate. "I told you I'm _not_ with those bandits. Or are you deaf as well as stupid?" There goes her mouth again. But then, it's not like things could get any worse. Neeshka dodges as the closest soldier drops his sword to make a grab for her. She narrowly avoids him, swinging around to put him between her and the crossbow. In doing so she dances too close to the third man, who brings her to a halt with a painfully tight grip on her tail. "Ow! Let go of me!"

It's the same man that noticed her tail in the first place. "I've heard demons bleed black. We could find out if that's true..."

Neeshka and the soldiers alike startle when a new voice booms out: "Hey! Who started the fight without me?"

The crossbowman lines his weapon up on the newcomers approaching from the road. "Looks like she's got friends."

This interruption takes the form of a dwarf, a small wolf and... oh hells, an aasimar? Apparently things _could_ get worse. Goosebumps dapple her arms, but at least there's no accompanying itch; the only thing worse than an aasimar is an aasimar paladin.

The dwarf - source of the shout - already has a waraxe in hand, as if he's been lugging the thing about just waiting to run into a reason to use it. The aasimar woman's hands are empty but there's a sling, a sickle, and a coin purse attached to her belt. The latter is especially enticing, just hanging there waiting to be cut... But now, she needs to focus on getting out of this.

The other swordsman picks his weapon back up and steps between the strange, new group and his prisoner. "This is no business of yours. We've got everything under control here, so you just move along."

The aasimar tilts her head in a way that would look more natural on the young wolf beside her. "It looked like you were attacking an unarmed woman."

The man holding Neeshka's tail gives it a yank that prevents her from leaning farther around the intervening soldier for a better view. "We're soldiers from Fort Locke, hunting some bandits that've been plaguing the area. We caught this demon trying to raid our camp, and we're about to convince her to tell us where her friends are."

"Your camp?" the strange woman asks. The crossbowman gestures over the hill towards where the camp lies, and the dwarf mutters something Neeshka doesn't catch. The woman looks at him thoughtfully before turning back to the soldiers. "What did she take?"

"Nothing yet." The man behind her tweaks her tail again unnecessarily. "But her crews been seen around here. Raiding merchants, caravans, packs of refugees... Probably did for the old commander as well."

Despite his grip on her tail, Neeshka leans forward again, determined to be seen as well as heard. "I'm not with those bandits! I was just passing through!"

"Passing right through the center of our camp, was it? Just tell us where your friends are hiding, demon, and we'll make it quick."

"But you can't just kill her." The strange woman may sound like an idiot, but at least she has her sling out and loaded now. She has no chance of swinging and releasing before the crossbowman pulls his trigger, but at least she's distracting him.

"Well, it looks like we have a problem here…" The soldier in front of Neeshka glances at the hill, as if expecting backup from the camp at any moment. Despite the pain from her tail, Neeshka smirks. He could be in for quite a wait; the leader of this little gang is probably heading in the opposite direction with all that he can carry. That's what she would do, anyway.

"Well, let's sort it out then!" the dwarf shouts. He approaches the front swordsman, picking up speed with some kind of typical dwarven warcry, but Neeshka has more important things on her mind. Like the man holding her tail, and the one holding the crossbow. The crossbowman wavers between the dwarf, the aasimar and the wolf, uncertain which threat to focus on. Just when he settles on the charging dwarf, something clunks into his helmet over the ear, apparently making quite an unpleasant noise on top of jolting him with the impact. But what matters is he drops his crossbow and Neeshka can focus on the man behind her.

The swordsman tightens his grip on her tail, probably to prevent from spinning around. Neeshka steps backwards instead, crowding into him to get inside the arc of the swing he takes at her. With the added leeway, she ducks, grabs some of the loose, churned up dirt and flings it at his face. He lets go of her tail just in time for her to roll away from a blind sword swing. The soldier swings again to keep her at a distance while while he brushes dirt off his face. Then he takes a step towards the unarmed tiefling, just in time to get bowled over by another charge from the dwarf. While the aasimar woman hovers uncertainly nearby, Neeshka retrieves her dagger from the downed man and finishes him off.

"You didn't have to do that," the aasimar immediately protests.

Predictable. "He was trying to kill me," Neeshka explains impatiently while she inspects the dead soldier and covertly pockets his coin. The other two men are down as well, dead or unconscious. "His friends would've killed you, if they could have. They've robbed more travelers than the actual bandits have. And killed those they could get away with calling bandits. For the bounty money."

While the dwarf settles down to clean off his waraxe, the aasimar shakes her head vaguely, unloading her sling and hooking it back on her belt - right next to the coin purse, Neeshka can't help but notice. The young wolf returns to the strange woman's side. Not a paladin, but some kind of nature lover. Aasimar… No idea how they managed to stay alive, being that stupid. And that dwarf, out hunting for fight... However, a group like that could probably get her past the outpost. The aasimar could stare them down with those creepy, golden eyes. Failing that, the dwarf and the wolf could intimidate them into letting her by. And afterwards, there would be that coin purse...

Neeshka puts on her brightest smile and aims it at the aasimar. "Say, are you going through Fort Locke?"


End file.
